Feathery Wings
by FireOpal
Summary: They all thought that Adam had dealt with the consequences. They were wrong. How will the trials thrown at them affect their friendship, even their lives? Postnovel, slight AC.
1. Chapter 1

**Comments** - Well here it is finally, my chaptered 'Good Omens' story. It's probably not very good, but **I** like it, and I adore messing around with my favourite wingéd pairing, Aziraphale/Crowley. Not that this is overly slashy, it is probably bearable to the non-slash fans, but it does have the occasional overtone, and if I ever do a sequel, that will definitely be angel/demon all the way.  
And now, without further adieu, I give you the first chapter. (Note - lyrics were originally used in this story, and I am going to note which ones are used for each chapter. Here I used an exerpt from Voltaire's _'Feathery Wings'_, the inspiration for the title, and this can be seen in it's included entirety on Skyhawke).  
**Summary** - _They all thought that Adam had dealt with the consequences. They were wrong. How will the trials thrown at them affect their friendship, even their lives? Post-novel slight A/C. _

**

* * *

Chapter One **

He would never be entirely sure how he got back to the bookshop, but it was possibly only because every pain-filled step was spent cursing. Not the most angelic of behaviours, and his words didn't have any of the thoughtful venom of his demonic adversaries, but Aziraphale had all the benefit of pain and deep emotion to fuel him. He was running out of his meagre supply, however, as he turned the corner onto the dark street where he could see his cold and empty residence just waiting for him to collapse in agony in. Resorting to muttering darkly about transport, or lack of it for angels in peril, he hoped that none of his slightly dubious neighbours would notice him returning.

Lucky he'd never bothered to fix a lock, really, as he didn't have any energy or will to hunt his bedraggled clothing for a key. In fact, as soon as the heavy door swung shut behind him, the floor suddenly raced up to meet him, looking remarkably desirable considering its dust-covered, rather hard finish. For a split second, his bones felt rattled, and he could just feel a thousand bruises forcing themselves onto his once unmarred skin. But then, after that, it didn't really matter.

He'd fallen unconscious.

* * *

Considering he'd just saved the world from Armageddon, Crowley felt quite good. 

In fact, he'd felt a lot better as soon as he'd disregarded his ruined suit and had a hot shower, settling down on the luxurious sofa in his large living room with a pleasantly full glass of whisky. The world was safe for him to ruin, Adam was getting on well, and not even a squeak of a repercussion from Down Below. He mused for a moment on maybe redesigning the points of the A1 to run through a few more lay lines, before the strangely-sobering alcohol brought something more important to mind.

Aziraphale. That da-stupid angel had disappeared after the Big Event, and without a much as a by-you-leave to him. Most unfair, especially as he had been hoping for one of the Angel's usual roundabout remarks on how Crowley was good underneath it all. He didn't particularly enjoy the self-pious speeches, and he sure as hell didn't agree with them, but after six thousand years, repetition left a mark on you. And Aziraphale always pulled that one out, without fail.

Damn. Now that angel was ruining his good mood. Well, nothing for it but to get it back by going and insulting the guy.

Not that he was worried or anything. Demons didn't worry about angels.

Aziraphale was probably perfectly fine.

Probably.

Five minutes later, a pristinely-restored Bentley was tearing down the road.

* * *

Urgh. 

Aziraphale lifted his head groggily, wondering vaguely why he was lying face down on the floor. Still, it was a comfortable floor, he decided, so he stayed there for a moment while he waited for the rest of his brain to kick in.

It didn't take long – it never did.

'_Oh yes_,' he thought muzzily to himself.

All of a sudden, he wished it hadn't.

The floor, now as unappealing as usual, seemed to violently dislike his sudden decision to get up, as it resisted and tried to drag him back down again. Swaying dangerously, he grabbed a nearby bookshelf, barely even noticing the bloodstains he left as he pulled himself through the shop, the shelf acting as a support.

He felt marginally more revived when he'd pulled off the remains of his clothing, though the hot water in the shower stung his back like a million needles, and he was glad there was no-one around to hear his agonised cries as the water turned murky red around his feet. The shirt chafed as well – everything chafed against something, so he sank into his most comfortable chair (chafing as he did so).

His eyes seemed to want to shut again, and the rest of his body was agreeing vehemently, disregarding his own views on the matter. He had a killer headache coming on as well.

Well, at least he was alone….

"Angel? You in here?"

Oh He-Da- Shit.

"Yeah, back room," he called wearily, and the footsteps got louder and closer, before a familiar face appeared at the door. Sunglassered, suave, sophisticated, not a spec of dust or lint on his immaculate black suit, Crowley always cut a dashing image, even when he was driving a knackered, flaming Bentley in a mad-dash race to save the world. And it must've been Aziraphale's imagination, but behind the discreet black spectacles, Crowley looked almost worried for a moment.

But then again, maybe he wasn't, as the next set of words out of the demon's mouth were-

"Bloody hell! What on Earth happened to you!"

Aziraphale snorted. All of a sudden, everything struck him as funny.

Talking of funny – had that been concern on Crowley's snake-like face? Ha, concern from a demon?

"I don't think 'on Earth' quite covers it," he replied numbly, still fighting the urge to laugh. Loudly. Hysterically.

A glass was pressed into his hands.

It had liquid in it.

It was brown.

He stared at it.

"Aziraphale?"

Oh no, Crowley was using his name. That was never good. Crowley only used his real name when he was being sarcastic, or wanted something. He sat up, or tried to at least - the effort was there.

"What?" he asked warily.

Crowley's eyebrow rose sinuously. Well, he **was** a demon. "You."

"What about me?"

"You look like shit."

Aziraphale glared. "You wasted all my time to tell me that?"

Crowley shrugged. "I've got to spread evil and malcontent somehow. What better way than to piss off an angel?"

To his surprise, Aziraphale didn't respond to the barb. Most unlike him. In fact, if anything, he looked worse…

He was even more surprised to find that hurt him a little.

"What is it?" he asked quietly.

Aziraphale closed his eyes as he paused. The reply, when it came, was low and devoid of any emotion.

"They clipped my wings."

The liquid stared back at him.

"Shit."

It took a moment for him to realise that there was hands encompassing his, raising the liquid to his lips and making him drink. It stung his throat, but it was nothing like the pain in his back and his head and his heart, so it didn't matter.

"Can I see your back?"

He nodded dumbly, letting Crowley carefully undo his shirt and pull it off. He hadn't been able to see that well in the shower, and there was no way in he- there was no way he was putting soap anyway near it, so he was sure it probably still looked a mess. Gabriel had never had very good aim anyway.

It was almost gratifying on the other hand to hear Crowley's gasp. To think that he had surprised a demon… if he hadn't been Clipped, he would've preened about this for days. A definite feather in his wings that one.

Wings that no longer existed of course.

Wait a minute – Crowley gasped? The two words filtered through his muggy brain. The effect was as if someone had made a remark about the sky being a wonderful green colour, and he hadn't yet decided how insane that made him. Did he hear wrong, or was the other person off his head?

Well, judging by his physical state, he put it down to post-Clipping syndrome. Whatever that was.

The time it took for Aziraphale to process this meant that as soon as he had finished, he found Crowley gone. Disconcerted, he looked around blearily, before catching sight of the demon sidling in from the bathroom, a cloth in one hand. The next minute, his back was on fire again and he yelled out, but the fire died down gradually, to be replaced by a cool, wet sensation.

Deciding that this turn of events was altogether far too weird, he gave up and collapsed.

Crowley caught him before he hit the floor again.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

When he came to, Andrew Lloyd Webber's 'Variations 1-4' was playing quietly in the distance. He was lying down again, and his first thought was to check he wasn't on the floor. He wasn't.

He was actually rather comfy considering he felt like his bones had turned to lead and his skin had been pulled off his body, thrown under a bus, dragged backwards through a hedge and then haphazardly sewn back on. Without anaesthetic.

He wondered if he should groan. He'd heard it was usual practise in these sorts of circumstances (or read anyway), and he did rather feel like it.

Aziraphale groaned. It didn't make him feel any better.

However, someone was listening, and so when he opened his eyes, they focused blearily on the little bedside table he recognised from his room. Oh, so he was in bed. That made sense.

He blinked. A cup of something hot appeared, sitting on the little table innocently as if it had been there all along.

"Here, it'll make you feel better," Crowley said, lifting the conjured cocoa and watching as the angel sat up slowly. Once he was sure that Aziraphale was as comfortable as he was going to get, he passed it across. Sipping cautiously, he found it was, as usual, perfect temperature – warm enough to warm him and yet cool enough not to burn his tongue.

"Thanks," he muttered eventually. Then he looked down.

"Where's my shirt!" He paused, and then in even more perturbed tones, "And my trousers!" He looked up at the demon currently sprawled over an expensive chair he'd never seen before, the epitome of relaxation and suave sophistication.

"Your shirt would've rubbed against your back," the demon replied evenly. "Honestly Az, you should invest in silk. What use is it being six thousand years old when you wear threadbare cotton all the time?"

"Humility is a virtue," Aziraphale replied automatically. Then, hearing what he'd actually said, he coughed, his throat feeling strangely constricted.

"Anyway," Crowley continued, studying his nails, "Do you usually wear trousers in bed?"

"I don't actually need to sleep, Crowley," Aziraphale pointed out.

"Oh," Crowley drawled, looking over the top of his sunglasses to meet thin-irised, yellow ones with his. "That's why this thing is so worn in. Because no-one's ever slept in it. Right."

Aziraphale couldn't even find the heart for a proper glare. He just sipped some more cocoa, still thankfully maintaining temperature. He wondered briefly if it could be considered a sin to drink demon-make cocoa, but the light-hearted humour was sinking as his mind finally started to wrap itself around the realisation.

His wings were clipped. He was no longer an angel.

He was, for lack of a better word, indeterminate. They had obviously deemed that what he'd done was not harsh enough for a Fall, but was that really any worse? At least then he'd be on a side, so to speak. Like this, he was alone.

Alone.

The word echoed in his mind. It was so true though. Usually, an angel's head was so full of thoughts, prayers, the whispering presence of holiness at the back of the mind – reassuring and comforting. But it wasn't there any more. After six thousand years, he suddenly realised just how silent the world could be. How lonely.

He shivered. Or at least, he guessed what that strange shudder was, the feeling of cold electricity tickling your spine provoking the reaction. He'd never shivered before – angels didn't shiver. They didn't feel cold or pain. They didn't get lonely.

"Az?"

He looked up. Crowley was looking at him, that indecipherable look he sometimes wore, and though his shades perfectly covered his eyes, he seemed to be looking straight at him, and into him.

"I'm alright," he replied quickly, finishing his cocoa. He couldn't hold that gaze for long, though he couldn't understand it. Over six thousand years he had only felt this uncomfortable around the demon a few times, mostly when they were still trying to get used to the Arrangement, and normally, it had been when Crowley had suddenly, casually announced something shocking, like having to skip country to start an Inquisition or two. The demon acted so, well, normal around him that these splurges of evil he had seemed almost out of character. Not completely of course, he knew perfectly well that Crowley was capable of causing low-grade harm, but the bigger stuff?

He realised his mind was babbling. He told it to shut up and let him think.

"Well, I appreciate this Crowley," Aziraphale began, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed and placing the empty mug on the bedside table. "But I have got to get this shop sorted, as it's now my only source of income. I dread to think what's happened to the stocklists…."

"Right," Crowley replied abruptly, standing in a swathe of perfectly tailored black leather. "I'll see you around."

"OK."

For a moment, both of them avoided looking at each other, feeling something had to be said. Then, turning, Crowley settled for slamming the door. Not enough to be painful to the ears or entirely angry, but not quite comfortable either.

He listened as Crowley skipped down the stairs like he usually did, the tread a heavy patter even through the threadbare carpet. Then he sat back down on the bed and quite calmly rested his head in his hands.


	3. Chapter 3

**Comments** - Well, my friends, this site is gradually grating on my nerves. OK, no-one is perfect and everything and I respect that they have a lot of traffic, but the endless dehabilitating pop-ups and lack of upload-ability are really...  
I will not rant. I won't.  
Anyway, here it is, a little late as usual. Trust me, there will be more to come and at more regular intervals as I am now not working everyday :D

**

* * *

Chapter Three**

"_Hey Az. I'm presuming you're in bed or reading a book or doing something else inane, so when you get this, give me a call, OK? I've got a bottle of wine sat here with our names on it. So call, OK?"_

"_You need to get a new answering machine, Aziraphale, if you didn't get my message. Call me when you get this."_

"_Aziraphale? Look, I know you're there… Just answer the ruddy phone, will you?"_

"_Come on angel, answer the phone. Are you mad at me or something? Gads, how am I supposed to talk to a damn ansaphone? … just pick up!"_

"_Angel? Are you there? … Come on, please Az, pick up the phone. … I'm coming round, OK?"_

"…Hello?" he called quickly into the receiver, hoping the ring-off tone wouldn't sound. To his relief, and dismay, the connection stayed.

"Angel!" The tone of Crowley's voice was both annoyed and strangely relieved. "Where the he- on Earth have you been?"

Aziraphale opened his mouth, debated his chances on re-entering Heaven if he lied, and then was saved by an almost-panicking demon.

"I've been calling you for _hours_ and you don't pick up the phone – I thought something had happened! I am getting you a ruddy cellphone, are you hearing me angel? _And_ I'll give it an annoying ringtone!"

"Crow-"

"Honestly, we nearly have the _end of the world_, and then you don't answer your phone _for hours_ – what am I going to think? Well!"

"Cr-"

"I left loads of messages on your answering machine, you can't tell me you didn't get them! Did it not occur to you to _call me_ at all? When I specificall-"

"_Crowley_!" Aziraphale called loudly into the receiver, moving the earpiece from his ear so that the piercing tirade was not harming his eardrums. When a celestial being wanted to be heard, they didn't even have to strain their pinkie. Not that Crowley, as a demon, would ever admit to having a pinkie. He'd have a small finger, damn it, possibly dipped in three-chocolate sauce.

"_What_?"

"I just wanted you to stop yelling."

"Oh."

"So," Aziraphale replied, sitting down on the stool behind the counter. Rubbing a hand over his face, he yawned, feeling like someone had dragged him backwards through a hedge, pulped the remains and sucked it through a straw. Or maybe he was just tired. "You wanted to talk to me."

"Er, yes."

"…What about?"

"Let me think – you interrupted me," the demon replied, a hint of biting reproach in the words. Aziraphale couldn't resist retorting.

"Well _sorry_ if I didn't want my ears blown off by your dulcet tones, _my dear_."

"Sarcasm, Az? I didn't think you knew how."

"_Must_ you call me by that infer- stupid nickname? I sound like a seventeen-year-old thick-brained gang-member." He could almost hear Crowley's answering smirk, so he continued. He was tired, damnit, and his bed was looking more inviting by the minute. "So, you rang me up to break my eardrums, threaten me with the most annoying product you invented this century, insult my sense of humour and call me by some ridiculous monosyllabic moniker?"

"Good grief, angel, what _has_ got into you?" Crowley actually sounded surprised. "Right, I'm gonna grab some of that vintage '57 I've got lying around…"

"Actually Crowley, I was going to go to bed," Aziraphale replied, closing his register and leaning forwards. He pinched the bridge of his nose with one hand as he'd seen some humans do, but it didn't seem to help much.

"Oh."

"Yeah, so if you don't mind…"

"I'll take you to breakfast then," Crowley jumped in with a tone that brooked no protestations. "That little café in St James with the bacon sandwich you like. Pick you up, say nine o'clock?"

Aziraphale sighed quietly. "Fine. Night Crowley."

"Goodnight angel."

* * *

"…This is your morning wake-up call, it is nine o'clock and I am your host, A.J. Crowley! Thank you for tuning into our station, it is a bright and beautiful Wednesday morning and it's a good day to be alive! Next up, we have 'It's a Sin', that old favourite by the Pet Shop Boys-"

"Crowley, shut the fuck up." Azriaphale lifted his head above the pillow slightly to glare at his demonic antagonist, before giving in and dropping it back to the soft warm bed. "And stop grinning – you're making my plants suicidal."

"Swearing?" Crowley checked his watch. "That's a new personal best, angel. Blasphemy before one o'clock. Get up, or have you completely forgotten you promised you'd have breakfast with me?"

Aziraphale commented mentally that he was sure he hadn't _promised_ as such as he staggered into the bathroom and splashed some water on his face. Dripping, he grabbed a towel and glanced at his reflection in the mirror, then glanced away just as quickly. His eyes looked bizarre now they were just blue, and instinctively (six thousand years having taken their toll) he expected the bright unbelievable colour they were, no matter how many times he saw his reflection.

He shook his shoulders and shooed Crowley out of his bedroom, shirking on some clothes.

Outside, the demon leant against the wall nonchalantly, waiting almost as if he had all the time in the world. His expression was one of utmost serenity (with just enough of a hint of malice to avoid being angelic), hiding his personal musings. Though he would maim and torture anyone who even looked like they were going to say it, he was, to be honest (a rare trait in a demon), worried.

There, he'd said it now. In the privacy of his head, that was.

But the thing was that he had good reason. He'd lived around the angel on and off for most of human history, and he'd never seen him quite like this. He'd seen him sad, pained, bored, happy, nervous, panicked, disappointed, annoyed, angry – the lot. But listless? Lonely? Tired? _Depressed_?

Never. Angels didn't do depression. It was probably bad for their halos or something.

As Aziraphale opened the door, he stood up from his slouch.

"Take your time," he said lightly, hoping for some sort of response. To his dismay, the angel just sighed and walked down the stairs, not even bothering to see if he would follow.

They got out of the shop in silence (though Aziraphale's eyebrows rose when he saw that Crowley had unlocked the door, instead of just smashing the windowpane as usual).

They got into the car in silence.

They drove in silence.

Well, Puccini's 'Innuendo' could hardly be classed as silence, but they didn't talk.

At all.

Crowley frowned, glancing sidelong at the angel sharing his Bentley. By now they'd have argued about his speed, or swerved to miss some 'on-coming innocent' by now, even on their off-days. Heck, even when they'd had that long dispute about the witch-burnings, Aziraphale had insulted the cut of his ruff.

But silence?

Damn he was worried. _Really_ worried.

He pulled the car effortlessly into the parking space, not even bothering to do it badly in his agitation. Well, some poor sod's day just got less-awful. Shame, but it couldn't be helped.

They got out in silence.

It was really starting to grate on Crowley's nerves.

"Sss-" He cleared his throat, and continued. "So, 'bagels and sophistication', or 'bacon and fried'?"

Azriaphale shrugged. Crowley decided that someone Downstairs had probably invented the movement - it was so damned annoying.

"Bacon it is then," Crowley stated, pocketing his keys with the sure-fire knowledge that no-one would dare steal _his_ car.

They didn't walk in silence, but this was only because Crowley decided to take out his anger by yelling at a few offensive (and inoffensive) drivers/pedestrians/pigeons, in between trying to start a conversation all by himself.

They took a corner seat in the small café, sliding into the plastic chairs in silence. Crowley snapped his fingers to attract the waitress' attention. Finally, as he finished ordering them both some food, he put down the menu. He stared at his nemesis-come friend. He took of his sunglasses.

Wait…

**_He took off his sunglasses_**.

With a quick flick of his hand that stopped people from looking too closely at him (though the all-night-diner was of the kind where no-one really looks at anyone so that they didn't a) recognise them in a line-up, b) noticing something they didn't want to see (for example shifty eyes) or c) come down from the peculiar chemical high they were experiencing), he leant forwards.

The momentous occasion finally caught the angel's attention. Finally.

"You've taken your sunglasses off." Aziraphale frowned, glancing around. "Won't someone notice?"

"There is a reason no-one notices demons, angel. It's called _magic_."

"Really?"

Crowley shrugged, then mentally blasphemed and tried to turn it into a roll of the shoulders. "Might as well."

"Oh."

"I ordered you a cocoa and some toast," Crowley ventured. He was losing the angel's attention again. "With butter. And jam."

"Thanks."

"This isn't the best place for a chat admittedly, so I thought we'd eat and then go for a walk in St James-" he looked at the downcast face of the ex-angel and continued flawlessly, "then we could jump in the fountain, get soaking wet, run around throwing grass down each others tops before flopping down and settling in for some good plain temptation."

He finished stirring his coffee and took a sip, grimaced and subtly adjusted the bitterness of the tepid liquid.

He waited.

"…What!"

"Thought that might get your attention," he commented coolly, sitting back. "I've been talking to, sorry, _at_ you for the past half an hour, I nearly killed three small children on the way here, I **took my sunglasses off** and I just suggested we both 'do the deed'. Somehow, I expected more of a reply than that."

There was a short, almost embarrassing pause as the innocent waitress lay plates and mugs in front of them, before moving off to serve someone else.

"I've a lot on my mind," Aziraphale replied vaguely, poking at his toast as if it had insulted his great-grandfather and had then spontaneously combusted into a small, toast-shaped mess.

"I hadn't noticed," Crowley drawled sarcastically. "Look, do you want to talk about it, or are we going to sit in this go-ruddy awful café for another twenty minutes while you pretend to eat and I pretend to not notice, followed by me driving you back to your bookshop and going and getting myself completely sloshed?"

"There is nothing to talk about," the angel stated, pushing the plate out of his personal space. It was an affront to bread everywhere. "I'm tired and got a lot to think about at the moment."

"You slept about twelve hours last night and by the look on your face, there's nothing of any importance going through that head of yours," Crowley hissed bluntly. "You forget, angel-"

"I am _not_ an angel!" Aziraphale exploded, leaping up. Thanks to Crowley's intervention, none of the patrons noticed, though the blonde's shout was enough to make even the mice think twice about coming out of the security of their home under the cupboard. "In case you hadn't noticed, Crowley, my wings were _clipped_ the other day. I am most entirely _not_ angel, so stop it with your pet-names!"

'_Well, at least he's talking_,' the demon thought to himself absently as he stood to face his friend.

"Surprisingly, **I had noticed** that you were sitting practically comatose, and **I think I noticed** that I carried you to bed so maybe **I have noticed** that you're currently wingless! But will you just tell me what exactly it is that I have done that makes you act like I'm less than dirt on the bottom of your shoe?"

"I don't think that." The words would've been soft and comforting, but the mood wasn't right, so they sounded more begrudging than anything else.

"Then why are you acting like it?"

"You wouldn't understand," Aziraphale replied quietly, glancing once at Crowley's face before looking away again.

"What wouldn't I underssstand?" Crowley asked, still fired up. "Is it the pain in your back that feelss like it's on fire when you know full well it isssn't? The way you feel like ssomeone cut off your arms and still expects you to feed yourself? Is it the way you want to crawl back and beg, plead for anything – anything! – that would make them give it back? The lonelinessss, the crippling loneliness that feels like your entire world is ssilent and empty and nothing seems to fill the hole?" Crowley swept his sunglasses off the table and placed them over his eyes in the manner of one buckling on armour. He was breathing heavily – he must've picked that up from the humans – as he turned to leave.

"You're right, Aziraphale," Crowley spat, not daring to look at his friend. "I'd know nothing about that."

Mouth open slightly, Aziraphale just watched the demon go, not noticing that he was drawing attention from the now curious patrons. He felt like he'd just been punched in the gut, and he felt cold – the words burying themselves in his mind, resonating with the rare emotion he'd just heard, and the realisation of how big a fool he'd been.

Listlessly, he dropped into the plastic chair, staring unseeingly at the cold plate of toast sitting forlornly on the discoloured table surface.


	4. Chapter 4

And the next chapter!**

* * *

Chapter Four**

He fell onto the corner armchair with a sigh, his hands coming up to cover his face though the apartment was empty. He really hadn't meant to say that – to yell at Aziraphale like that. The ruddy angel had just had his wings clipped, it was hardly 'Be Nice to Crowley' day. He- Heck, he'd never meant to bring that up at all. He had been quite happy sitting on that particular set of thoughts thank you very much and it was doing him fine.

As for the angel… Well, at least he'd been 'sauntering vaguely Hell-wards' as he liked to think, and could console himself with revenge and vain promises of a Damned Brotherhood. Aziraphale had nothing to shield him from the guilt and regret.

The radio flickered into life. He jumped.

"…_break free to break the mould, but I can't do this all on my…_ **CROWLEY**?"

Oh shit.

"**CROWLEY, THIS IS AZAL, SEVENTH GRAND HIGH CURATOR OF THE PIT OF DAMNED SOULS."**

Double shit.

"**THE BOSS IS UPSET. GET YOUR BLESSED TAIL DOWN HERE RIGHT NOW."**

"Er, yes my lord."

"**YOU'D BETTER. WE'VE HAD SOME FUNNY REPORTS OF YOU RECENTLY – CONSORTING WITH ANGELS AND THE LIKE. THE BOSS DEMANDS ANSWERS. ANSWERS, CROWLEY."**

"Consorting with-?" he tried innocently.

"**THIS DOES NOT MAKE US LOOK BAD, CROWLEY.**"

"Yes, my lord."

"**YOU ARE GOING TO SUFFER FOR THIS, CROWLEY.**"

"But I-"

"**NOW, CROWLEY! **_…I know that I'm no superman-"_

More than slightly irritated, unnerved and definitely scared out of his wits, he loosed a small fireball at the offensively innocent gadget. It smoked and melted down into a bubbling little plastic puddle, but the wanton destruction did nothing to ease his mind. Shortly enough it would be a smoking and bubbling melted puddle of Crowley instead.

Oh _fuck_.

Briefly, he pondered on how long he could barricade the flimsy but expensive prefab door against the pissed-off denizens of the nether regions of Hell. As he'd used up all his holy artefacts in the Armageddon That Wasn't, definitely not very long.

Probably about thirty seconds, or until he ran out of things to throw.

For another brief moment he wondered (whilst bolting out of his apartment, racing down the stairs, out onto the pavement and fumbling with his car keys), if Aziraphale had enough inherent holiness in him to ward them off instead. After all, he reasoned, the angel hadn't Fallen (as such), he'd just had his wings clipped. It was probably only a temporary thing, knowing the angel. After all, if _he_ wasn't Good, then what were the Heavens coming to? He had that whole 'holier than thou' thing off-pat, even if he did regularly use it on someone he was categorically much holier than.

Still, somehow the idea of cowering behind a battered and bruised ex-angel while the hordes of the Underworld broke down the door didn't do anything for his still-persistent ego. Shifting gear to Much Much Faster, he reassured himself that it was only his ego that wouldn't take it. What else could it be?

Absently, he swerved out of the way of a little old lady as she blindly crossed the road. Then, horrified, he stared at his hands. If it wasn't bad enough, he was now instinctively **saving** mortal lives. He shuddered, clutched the steering wheel tighter until his fingers whitened and wished desperately that it was all some sort of bad dream. Any minute he was going to wake up and –

He didn't think much more than that, except for the few brain cells that screamed as he hit the wall dead on. When the underlings finally arrived and dragged away his smoking discorporated corpse, the Bentley was left in a pile of crumpled metal that completely messed up the traffic for the remainder of the day.

Crowley never did manage to appreciate the irony in the situation.

Just as Crowley's earthly body was smashed into an earthly corpse, Aziraphale woke, sitting up so sharply that his back screamed and his head swam.

Crowley.

Something was wrong.

He was breathing heavily, though he quickly stopped as soon as he realised what he was doing, and after a few long seconds of staring blankly into space while he tried to calm his mind, he raised a trembling hand to wipe his face. With surprise, he realised he was sweating, though, completely at odds with this physical phenomenon, he felt ice-cold and sick to the stomach.

He scrambled out of bed (kicking the tangled covers as he half-fell) and made for the door, grabbing his threadbare dressing gown as he did so and wrapping it tightly around his pyjama-covered shoulders in attempt to warm himself up. Only one thing was on his mind – he disregarded thoughts of a comforting cup of tea (or maybe something stronger), or that they hadn't spoken since yesterdays' volatile argument – and pounced on the phone, thanking Him for speed dial as he fidgeted.

And waited.

And worried.

And waited.

Despairingly, he tried Crowley's home number three times, and then tried his mobile. Then he gave up any pretence of not being worried, and raced upstairs, wishing that just this once he could call in a minor miracle and shift clothes. He'd always given some sign of minor disapproval when Crowley had done it (quite beside the fact that the demon was using occult powers), but right now he wished he could take a leaf from that annoying, superior, devilishly sadistic demon's book.

His heart in his throat, he half-ran out into the darkened street, the door jangling shut behind him. Then, without a thought to the unlocked bookshop behind him, not a thought to the fact that Crowley's apartment was miles away, he set off at a run.

His one thought as he ran, as he tried to block his mind to the panicked thoughts threatening to overwhelm him was that he really wished he had transport. Life was hell on an angel without wings.

So he ran.


	5. Chapter 5

Sorry it's been a while, but it's here!

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**Chapter Five**

Crowley awoke to fire and pain.

Many people have a visual idea of Hell in their minds, a cacophony of heat and fire with screams and smoke and lingering dread. Whilst this is all very true for the main forum of the Underworld with its offices and imps and paperwork (after all, they do have an image to maintain), the actual Pits, Sanctums and Circles each have their own feel. For example, the Seventh Circle of Hell (reserved for lawyers and maths teachers) is a cold and empty plane of nothingness, full of rock and ice and nothing.

And the Third Pit, reserved for traitors and employees only, was fire. Fire and pain, and the torment of your victims.

"So, you're awake." The voice was familiar, but the tone was odd. "Take your time," the voice continued, in the manner of one who quite emphatically means the opposite.

"..Az-?" he rasped, wrenching open his eyes. Sure enough, the angel was standing over him, blue eyes surprisingly cold and hard. His pale face and eyes reflected and glinted in the firelight, and his blonde hair, usually a veritable halo, looked almost eerie.

"Ah, so you do have a voice, my dear," Aziraphale replied sardonically, and Crowley blinked.

"Aziraphale? What the- what on earth's going on?"

"Come now, my dear, surely you can work it out?" the angel stepped backwards as Crowley sat up, raising one hand to his temple. Then, confused, he felt his face. No sunglasses.

He looked up at his friend. There it was again – the cuttingly sarcastic smirk, the cold light in his eyes… Glancing around, he felt his stomach turn to lead, and, defying all physical laws, try to force itself up his throat.

"Ah, now you're getting it."

"Why are you doing this?"

"This?" Aziraphale gestured at himself innocently. "Well, we upstairs were thinking, and we were thinking – what is the best way to really hurt a demon? Now, normally it would be pain, torture and a remission of allowances. But you," he leant forwards, grinning wickedly. The expression completely changed the cast to the angel's face, and the one person Crowley had ever really considered angelic looked positively demonic. "You get the special treatment.

"You didn't really think we'd forget about stopping Armageddon, did you? One eleven-year-old whelp tells us to leave you alone and we jump, eh? No – we were just waiting for you to slip up. And look where it got us – look what we have found!" The 'angel' leapt up, gesturing wildly with his hands, the very picture of excitement. "A demon hanging around with an angel! Who'd have thought?

"And not just any demon," he hissed, turning to face Crowley. "The very demon we were hoping to see. You."

"Great," Crowley replied sarcastically, not bothering to get up. "Now you've got me. Argh argh argh. Bring on the pain and torture and fiery implements."

"Oh no," the false angel drawled. "Were you not listening? Really, we credited you with more intelligence than this. You get the _special treatment_.

"In other words, you get me."

"You," Crowley replied, disbelievingly. They were shutting him up with this complete idiot for a few years. He resisted the urge to laugh. This would be a doddle.

"Well," Aziraphale's double amended. "Not quite. Maybe I was wrong to say you get me. You get him."

Crowley raised one eyebrow. It dropped as the false angel waved his hand negligently in his direction. His eyes slipped shut and he fell backwards into unconsciousness.

* * *

It started to rain, the icy droplets soaking into his jumper and soaking his hair to lay flat against his head. The chill of the night was starting to edge into his bones, but still he ran, ignoring the odd looks on the rare occasions he saw someone else. He only slowed when he spotted the apartment building and, nursing a stitch in his stomach that made him gasp for breath, he half-jogged across the street.

In his heart, he knew before he even opened the door, before he saw the abandoned plants on the windowsill, before he frantically threw open every door in search that Crowley wasn't there. It didn't feel like he was there – the plants were respiring in a relaxed fashion, and the apartment felt empty and disused.

Instead of flopping down on the sofa like he wanted to, he headed determinedly for Crowley's depleted bookshelf. Thankfully enough, there, next to a first-edition adult copy of 'Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets' (the demon's personal favourite), was exactly what he was looking for.

The Demonic Bible.

Skipping through passages at random, he ignored the way his skin wanted to recoil from the pages and instead hoped, heart in mouth, that what he was looking for, what he'd heard about –

There. His finger stopped dead.

"_For those who doth wish to entere thee realme of thee Under Worlde, take thee these stepps._"

He stood there for a long moment, staring but not really seeing the words underlined by his fingertip. Going into hell… If he did this, there was no chance to get back Upstairs. He'd be giving up his angelic ways for good.

But if he didn't, then Crowley – Well, he'd never forgive himself.

After a moment, he carefully closed the tome, keeping his page with his finger as he headed into the kitchen. He wondered idly where one would get warm cockerel's blood at three in the morning in London.


	6. Chapter 6

**Comments** - Apologies on the delay on this, but I've been having problems with breaks, and as you will see, this chapter needs it! Plus I'm now back at 6th form... you don't want to hear this. Get on and read!

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**Chapter Six**

_The cold mud felt horrible to his feet, but this style of sandal was all the rage in Rome, so Crowley ignored the discomfort and, sure enough, it disappeared._

_Everything was going as planned. Before long, this rugged little isle would be crushed underneath Rome's mighty empire, yet another piece of land to govern (or, in other words, exploit, steal from and bugger up). Everything was just as planned._

_He felt Aziraphale's presence before he saw the angel, standing in another part of the silent battlefield. Walking over, he saw that the angel was stood over something small – the tiny limp form of a child, a girl no older than nine cycles of the seasons, her dark brown hair mingling with blood and mud, her face peaceful though her body was broken like a shattered plate._

"_You did this."_

"_It would've happened any way," Crowley replied, almost defensively. "Besides, I thought your lot would approve – civilisation, religion, all that."_

"_Some of them do," Aziraphale admitted absently, his gaze fixed on the child._

"_They won't win, you know," the demon said quietly, not sure what else he could try with the strange, almost-friendly angel he had come to know. "They never would have."_

"_I know that, demon," Aziraphale snapped, looking up to glare at him. They stood for a few seconds, both eyeing each other cautiously. This was wrong – they shouldn't even be stood next to each other, let alone talking, even if they were arguing. "Leave me alone, Crawly."_

"_It's Crowley," Crowley corrected. "I changed it."_

"_Good for you. Now leave me alone, demon."_

_So he left._

* * *

"_I can't believe you did this!"_

_Crowley just shrugged. "I'm a **demon**, Axiraphale. It's what I do."_

"_How can you murder these people? They're innocent – they've done nothing wrong!" Aziraphale shouted, gesturing wildly._

"_They're human," Crowley replied bluntly. "As I said, it's my job. Demons create havoc and pain. Besides, if they just give the right answers, they might get off…"_

"_That's stupid and you know it!" the angel retorted, eyes blazing. "Well done Crowley. The Spanish Inquisition - murder, rape and torture millions of innocent lives. I'm sure this will be a feather in your wings. I'm sure you can do without me."_

_He turned his back and unfolded his wings, walking to the edge of the roof._

"_Axiraphale! Come back!" Crowley protested. The angel didn't turn. "Angel!"_

_Aziraphale just spread his wings and flew off, leaving Crowley alone in the moonlight. He was always surprised how much that hurt._

* * *

"_Oh look, here comes trouble," Aziraphale bit out with a hint of sarcasm as he looked up at the sound of the bell and spotted the demon._

"_Hello angel," Crowley replied, raising one hand to wipe across his eyes, nudging his sunglasses out of the way. He hefted the pack on his back further onto his shoulder. "How are you?"_

"_Oh, I'm just fine," the angel bit back sharply. "There are millions dying on the Front, the German war-machine is grinding its way across continents and I'm just peachy."_

_Crowley sighed. "Az-"_

"_No," Aziraphale interrupted. "I don't want to hear it, Crowley. I don't want to hear how you've tempted a few more people into lasting torment. I don't want to hear how you've prolonged yet another World War. I don't want to hear what atrocities you've committed. After all, **it's your job**."_

_The demon glanced away, his eyes burning suspiciously, his stomach swooping with a mixture of emotions._

"_I didn't do anything like that," he replied quietly, still not looking up. "I just – I wanted to see if you were OK."_

"_I'm fine," Aziraphale repeated huffily, before asking despite himself. "Where have you been anyway?"_

_That made Crowley look up, his strange eyes seeming to burn into the angel despite the covering of tinted glass._

"_I've been fighting a war." _

_Then, without another word, he turned his back and let himself out of the bookshop._

_He just made it to his Bentley before he broke down, a million horrific pictures flitting across his memory. A million pictures he had hoped the angel might help erase._


	7. Chapter 7

**Comments** - Not much to say except thank you reviewers - You keep me writing, seriously. Oh, and Smokey2307, so if you're reading/enjoying this, then you might want to thank her. She bugs me to keep going :D

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**Chapter Seven**

He didn't bother to go back to the bookshop to do the rite – after all, Crowley's apartment was quite near some good occult shops, and if his plan went right, then the people Upstairs would most likely be looking for him. The bookshop would be the first place they looked.

Crossing his legs, he sat in the centre of the rather shaky salt pentagram and put the mixing bowl containing the ingredients in front of him, trying to shelve his disgust at the pungent scent of clotting blood, dead meat and sulphur rising in the heat of the many candles he'd had to light in the room. Suspiciously, he was sure that all this wasn't _strictly_ necessary, but who was he to say that rats' blood could be used instead of prime cockerel? Besides, if he was going to get chucked out of Heaven, he might as well, as Crowley always said, do it in style.

The words sounded strange on his tongue. The incantation was in an obscure mix of Arabic and some words he recognised from Their language, and the combining result was a fluid susurrus of noise that seemed to fall into the very air. Candles flickered as they reached for oxygen, their warmth flowing over his skin and increasing as the spell continued. The smell of sulphur – far too much to merely be the teaspoon or so he added earlier – crept around him and he choked on a word. Immediately, the salt around him smoked and caught fire.

Before he could contemplate the strangeness of this, he felt invisible arms cross over his chest, and with a yell he was dragged backwards and down.

The carpeted floor he expected to feel as he fell back was gone, and he tumbled backwards into the newly created hole. Closing his eyes as he turned over and over, he tucked himself in and just hoped it would stop before he threw up.

Luckily for him, it did, and he hit the ground with a loud thud that rattled his bones, adding bruises to his bruises. He lay like that, knees to his chest, for a few minutes, waiting for his head to stop spinning and for the initial wave of pain from impact to fade away a little. Then, gingerly, he lifted his head and squinted at his surroundings.

It was most definitely Hell. If there had been somewhere else he could've been, like a dungeon dimension or maybe Australia, the first clue that he was in fact in the Nether Regions of the Underworld was probably the fire. Random spurts of it almost grew out of the ground like a pyromaniac's dream come true. Sulphurous smoke hung in the air like fog, yet his vision was quite good, and he could clearly distinguish the shadowy shapes of Hell's employees moving in and out of large, looming buildings.

Picking himself up, he nervously raised a hand to flatten down his hair, thanking providence that he had thought to dirty up it's marvellous gold tint and that his eyes were now rather dull. What was the etiquette in Hell anyway? Did demons just waltz around, did they automatically know their way? Did, and this made his stomach sink in horror, they know each other by sight? Did they have some form of angel or ex-angel sensor?

Squaring his shoulders, he berated himself for panicking and reminded himself that he was here to rescue Crowley. Besides, if he looked confident and like he belonged, then maybe he'd get away with it.

He headed for the biggest and nearest building, reasoning that the enchantment would probably have put him somewhere vaguely central and that if he didn't try something he'd be stood around in Hell until someone found him. A good defence is a good offence, and all that.

Surprisingly, the large, intricately-carved doors (depicting images of human suffering and the like) opened to reveal an almost ordinary foyer, complete with bored receptionist. However, this receptionist differed from most on Earth in that her eyes were a dark scarlet, and a sleek black tail swished through the air behind her as she painted her nails.

"Hello," Aziraphale said, trying to combine a tad of smirk into his usual winning smile. Did one have manners in Hell? Did they smile?

"If you want to be recorporated, it's the second door on the left," she stated disinterestedly, glancing at him only once before going back to her impossibly black nails.

"Why would I go there?" he asked before he could catch himself, surprised.

She just looked at him. "It's the most common, and like that," she gestured at his attire, "you look like you could do with a new body."

"Oh. Right. Well, I'm not looking for a new body, I'm looking for, er," _a friend of mine?_ "someone I know. Name's A.J. Crowley."

"Oh, one moment then," the receptionist recapped her nail varnish and turned to a shiny new computer next to her. "What's the first name?"

"Anthony," Aziraphale supplied. "Anthony J. Crowley."

The screen flashed as she typed, and, glancing over the file, the receptionist's eyebrows rose.

"**The** Crowley? It says here that he was responsible for stopping Armageddon and is known to have consorted with angels. What do you want with him?"

Aziraphale's mouth ran dry, but he schooled his expression. "Erm, he offended me once. Discorporated me a couple of times." _Well that was hardly lying, was it?_ "I thought I'd get him back for it."

"Ah, revenge," the receptionist grinned, giving him a knowing look. "Well, this says he's being pretty well looked after by the boys, but if you want you can go down, kick him in the ribs, something like that. I can get you a pass."

"Er, thanks," the ex-angel replied, bewildered. Who would've thought it would be so easy to sneak into Hell?

She snapped her fingers and a piece of yellowed parchment appeared between her fingers. Grabbing a handsome raven's quill from her desk tidy, she scrawled a few barely comprehensible lines in the spaces provided and signed it with a flourish.

"Here, that'll let you in," she handed it over. "Give him one for me – I've been dying for the end of the world, get out from behind this desk, see some fun."

"Er, yes. OK. I will."

"Take the last door on the right, you want the third floor down, then the black door. Can't miss it."

"Thanks."

Feeling strangely cheated by her jovial attitude, he headed for the door she had pointed out, which turned out to be a lift. Hitting the third button, he waited as the doors closed and it jerked into life.

He was fine until he got to the second floor, where he had to move over to make room for a suave-looking demon in a black and red silk suit. They didn't talk, luckily, but Aziraphale could feel the demon's eyes on him as he waited for his floor, resplendent in jumper and tweed trousers. He was thankful when they stopped again and he got off leaving Aziraphale to follow the receptionists directions without too much discomfort.

Well, apart from having to ignore the agonised screams of countless millions as they were tortured. It took all of his common sense and will to stop himself from opening any door save that she had indicated. He had to keep his mind on Crowley. Crowley was in danger, and he couldn't help those people.

Besides, one angel against the whole of Hell was really crap odds.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

_The visions had gone, receding into his personal darkness like smoke and leaving him quite alone. He felt cold, and noticed he was shivering, but one glance around him told him that he wasn't awake, or if he was, then he'd been moved. He was no longer in the rocky cavern that the Aziraphale-double had tormented him in earlier, but he didn't recognise the unending darkness either, and surmised that he was in fact still unconscious._

_That, of course, begged the question of how he knew this. Usually when he was unconscious (admittedly a rarity), he had no idea of it until he woke up afterwards, usually with a splitting headache._

_Suddenly, without warning, something brushed his arm. Jumping, he span around swiftly, he was even more surprised to find himself still alone. Heart racing, he waited, his entire body tense._

_When he felt something touch his arm this time, his hand shot out and grabbed instinctively, closing tightly on clothing. Glancing up, he spotted a familiar figure, blue eyes bright._

"_Crowley?"_

"_Aziraphale?" His tone echoed his surprise as he loosened his grip. "What are you doing here?"_

"_I've come to get you out," the ex-angel replied with a small smile._

"_You can't come here, it's too dangerous!" Crowley hissed. Aziraphale's face fell._

"_After all we've been through? I came here so you could escape, Crowley."_

_Crowley's heart tightened. "You shouldn't have – you shouldn't be down here at all…"_

_Before the angel could reply, they both heard footsteps, and a demon appeared, flaming blade drawn._

"_Angel, look out!" Crowley yelled futilely as the demon bore down on them, raising his blade. It was too late however – his momentum carried him forwards and Aziraphale's shock held him in place. The blade fell as predictably as a scythe, cutting through Aziraphale's back like a hot knife through butter. The intense blue eyes flew open as he fell forwards, Crowley jumping to catch him._

_Trying to hold up the dying angel, he felt his eyes prick with rare tears. Scrabbling to stop the thick blood that was soaking the woollen jumper, he gently lowered him to the floor._

_He felt his throat constrict as, wordlessly, the familiar blue eyes slid shut in that deathly pale face._

_When he looked up to see their attacker, the demon had gone. Standing, he tried desperately to see where he'd gone, to follow him, to revenge his friend. He couldn't spot him at all, so he glanced back down at Aziraphale, staggering back when he saw that the body had disappeared._

_Walking backwards, completely confused, he jumped when he walked straight into something solid, and turning swiftly, was shocked to see Aziraphale standing in front of him. His jumper was soaked in crimson, his face cold and pale, and his eyes burned like ice._

"_You killed me, Crowley," the ex-angel stated, stepping forwards. Crowley retreated, his mind working madly to understand beneath the haze of pain and darkness. "I'm dead because of you. Did you know this would happen? Did you engineer this, to kill an angel? I bet that would get you in Their good books again - is that why you did it? _

"_All this time, I thought you were trying to be good, all this time you pathetically tried to reverse your Fall – and look where it got you! Rejected by Heaven, scorned by Hell, murderer of the only friend you had… What do you have left?"_

_Aziraphale smiled, the expression full of sadness. "You're all alone, Crowley – there's no-one that can help you now. All this time I thought you were really trying… but you killed me, didn't you? You don't kill your friends if you're an angel, you should know that. So what's left for you? All alone again, and nothing to save you from the truth – I'm so disappointed in you."_

_The last five words echoed around his mind as the angel faded, leaving Crowley alone again. Tears streaming his cheeks, he curled up into a ball as mindless oblivion returned._

* * *

Glancing down the corridor, he put his hand to the door and turned carefully, wondering if Hell would boobytrap her own doors. Luckily, they didn't appear to be quite that paranoid, and it opened easily, swinging open.

It was quite odd, he noticed immediately, how the black marble floor of the corridor seamlessly fitted into the rocky, gravel ground, which spread beneath his feet and upwards to make the walls and ceiling of a cave complex. A wave of smoky air wafted across his face and his eyes, suddenly stung, started to water. Pulling his jumper quickly over his arm, he pressed the woollen cloth over his nose and squinted, stepping forwards.

He suddenly realised how stupid this entire operation was. All right, so the receptionist had said that Crowley was here at least, so it wasn't a complete fool's mission. Still, he was in one of the lowest, nastiest, least-escapable parts of Hell. Plus, he still wore the face he had for six thousand years, and if anyone recognised him, he'd be worse off than the demon he was here to rescue.

He was distracted from this increasingly panicked train of thought by a noise. It was a faint cry, and though Aziraphale had never heard of a demon in pain before, he knew, almost instinctively that it was Crowley. Dashing in that direction, he disregarded any thought of concealment as he glanced around before spotting a small curled up figure; its back against a cove in the wall, presumably an attempt to shelter himself from the barren environment or his persecutors.

Sinking to his knees, he reached out for his friend's shivering shoulder, his face creasing in sorrow.

"Crowley," he whispered, looking for a part of his arm that didn't look painful to the touch and settling for a spot near his elbow.

To his surprise, as soon as his fingertips brushed cloth, Crowley started awake, flinching away from him as wild yellow eyes flew open. What hurt more was the open hostility in his gaze as it focused on the ex-angel.

"Back for some more fun?"

Aziraphale frowned, confused.

"What?"

"Oh don't bother to pretend," the bloodied demon spat, his pale face contorting into an expression of hate. He flung his arms out, making a free target of his chest. "Come on, hit me."

"Crowley, it's me," Aziraphale tried, glancing around to check there was no-one coming. "I've come to get you out of here."

"Yeah yeah yeah," Crowley replied nonchalantly, leaning back against the wall. "Like I'm going to fall for that. I have been a demon as long as most – I know exactly what techniques you're going to-"

"Crowley, listen to me!" the ex-angel hissed, interrupting. "I don't know what they've been doing or saying to you, but it's really me. You know, the angel who always tells you off for drowning ducks in St James? You took me there yesterday, and shocked the life out of me by taking off your sunglasses in public. You yelled at me for being a selfish prick, remember?"

Crowley just stared at him, his eyes looking a little doubtful be didn't relax.

Aziraphale wracked his brains. "Er, I once changed the music in your car for Christian rock and you didn't forgive me for three years, and only when I'd turned it into 'The Decapitated Carrots' and miracled you a bottle of your favourite wine. Then, in revenge, you made the doorbell in my shop cackle loudly instead of ringing until you got sick of the noise every time you visited."

"It was 'The Decimated Carrots'," the demon replied, but his lips were curling into a lop-sided nostalgic smile. Then the next minute he was strictly serious. "What on Earth are you doing here, Aziraphale? You're going to get yourself killed!"

"I came looking for you," he answered a little lamely. "I was worried."

"Well, can't you be worried **a long way away**?" Crowley asked wearily, pulling his jacket around himself, as if searching for warmth.

"I came to get you out of here," Aziraphale said, and the demon just gaped at him.

"Are you **insane**?" he asked eventually, staring as if the ex-angel had grown another head. "This is Hell, not a prisoner of war camp – we can't tunnel out, hiding the dirt in our trousers!"

"I am confiscating your war films collection when I get home," Aziraphale commented. "And, OK, I hadn't thought I'd actually get this far, but there must be a way we can get out of here…"

"Let's review then shall we?" Crowley asked with a bite of sarcasm. "There's you – the Clipped angel wearing clothes that are practically a neon sign to those miles around saying in foot-high letters 'Angelic Pansy' and not even enough brains to realise the position he's in. Then there's me, and I highly doubt I can stand, let alone make a daring escape attempt."

"I am not a pansy," he objected.

"Are too," the demon returned, leaning back and closing his eyes, a hint of a smirk playing on his expression.

"Well, maybe a little," Aziraphale conceded as Crowley snorted. "But there must be a way out. I got in, didn't I?"

"The biggest stroke of luck ever seen," the demon commented. He sighed. "Aziraphale, much though it goes against my worse nature and general attitude, you've got to get out of here. There's a chance that if you go on your own, you won't get noticed."

"Self-sacrifice, my dear?" Aziraphale teased gently. "I thought that was an angelic trait. Anyway, I can't just leave you here."

"I'll ask nicely?" the demon asked, but he shook his head.

"Come on, let's see if you can stand." Reaching over, he took Crowley's hand in his and stood, gently pulling the demon up with him. After a few false starts and with the demon clutching rather tightly to his hands, Crowley stood, testing his legs. After a few seconds, his better-than-human constitution rallied and he stepped back, though his hand didn't leave Aziraphale's.

"Here, my dear," the ex-angel offered his shoulder. Shifting into a position where he could lean on his friend, Crowley hissed as he moved painful limbs, biting down hard on his lip.

"Right, Mr Optimist," he said eventually, glancing up and down the cavernous corridor. "Where to now?"

"Well," Aziraphale thought hard. "I came from that direction, which is probably the only way out. They'll notice us if we go past reception – is there another way out?"

Crowley shrugged. "No idea. Though," a thought hit him. "We're in the main building, right? Big decorative doors?" The ex-angel nodded. "Then we shouldn't be too far from Lucifer's Landing."

"He has an American-style holding?" Aziraphale asked, puzzled.

"No, as in landing-ground. The place were we all Fell," Crowley replied, his eyes shadowed. "Anyway, there should be a way out there, and it beats going all the way to the top only to come back down again."

"Right, it's a plan."


	9. Chapter 9

**Comments** - Sorry about the delay - you know me. But here it is! Thanks reviewers, you're a constant source of happiness and delight for me, you don't know how much it means.**

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Chapter Nine

Time passed oddly in Hell, but as far as he could tell, Aziraphale guessed they had been travelling for at least one long, exhausting hour and a half when Crowley signalled for them to stop. As soon as they had got out of the door, down the corridor and into the lift, it had been a quick trip downstairs a level or two (once again, the ex-angel's uncommonly good luck holding true). From there, Crowley led them to a large black double door, the very sight of which sent a shiver down both their spines.

"It's through there," Crowley panted, breathing hard. Obviously the wounds he'd sustained had been worse than the usual corporeal variety, and to be frank, Aziraphale was worried. Anything that could hurt a celestial being enough to incapacitate him was quite nasty, as they had to hurt not just their current bodies, but their souls. The two of them had complained a million times about the discomfort and annoyance of having to get a new manifestation from their respective offices, but that was nothing. The only weapons that could do physical damage to an angel or demon were occult themselves, such as the sword that Aziraphale had wielded at the end of the world. That, being a holy blade, would do considerable damage and even cause death to a demon, and probably the same to any angel as its effect was on a soul, not a body.

So, in brief, Crowley was in trouble.

Still, they slugged on, the disgraced angel taking more weight on his shoulders than the demon probably imagined. As soon as they reached the doors however, Aziraphale reached out with one hand to open it, and immediately his hand brushed the surface, the wood seemed to almost shudder under the touch. Then, a split second later, the most awful screaming din rang out, and the two jumped, Crowley nearly falling to the stone floor in shock.

"What on Earth is that?" Aziraphale shouted, trying to cover his ears to block out the noise.

"Alarm," Crowley shouted back. "Come on, we'll be surrounded any minute!"

Without hesitation, they both moved forwards and forced the heavy doors open as the very air shrieked, the sound echoing through the corridor and out into the barren plain desolately.

It was the most lonely and inhospitable place Aziraphale had ever seen – not just in the environment, but the feel of the place. The flat and unyielding ground seemed to scream of the pain it had seen, the air tasted of betrayal and the wind whistled with the scream of the alarm and the salty taste of tears. Unconsciously, he tightened his grip on Crowley, not noticing the way the demon reacted the same way, making it hard to see which was giving and taking comfort.

They walked forwards slowly, and when he looked at the demon, Aziraphale noticed his face looked deathly pale, and not just from pain. Wisely, he kept his mouth shut, but was just wondering where they were going to go from here when there was the sound of a door banging, and they whirled round in time to see the corridor they had just left flood with demons.

And, at the front, her eyes blazing, was the receptionist.

"Now would be a good time to think of a plan," Aziraphale commented uneasily. He glanced quickly at Crowley, who was looking hard at the sky speculatively.

"Aziraphale…"

They backed off slowly as the crowd advanced.

"How much do you trust me?"

Looking sharply at his friend, he was surprised when the demon eased himself off his shoulder and stood almost normally on his own two feet. His reply however, was instinctual.

"More than life itself."

"Good." Crowley grinned, and with a sudden noise of tearing fabric, his wings burst out, shaking feathers all over the ground. He grabbed the ex-angel tightly around the middle and leapt up, fanning out his wings and beating down hard to gain some up thrust. After a few perilous seconds, they were airborne and shooting upwards, clinging tightly to each other as the wind whistled past.

"You're going on a diet," Crowley complained, breathing heavily at the effort of keeping them both in the air and moving up. Aziraphale however was looking down.

"They're following!"

"I'd be surprised if they didn't," the demon replied. "We're going through the crossover zone soon-"

"The what?"

"Just do as I say," Crowley shouted back. "I need you to picture your bookshop – the front room. Build it in your mind and imagine yourself there."

"But-"

"Do it Aziraphale – if you never listen to me again, do it!"

Obediently, the ex-angel closed his eyes and ignored the arms around his waist, the feeling of the ground moving further and further away beneath his feet, and instead remembering the bookshop. The feel of the dusty floor beneath his feet, the smell of books, the bookshelves (complete with bloodstains), the desk in front, the door behind…

All of a sudden, he felt his stomach lurch, and suddenly they weren't rising, but falling and landing painfully in a bundle of limbs on the uncomfortable floor of the bookshop.

"Urgh," Aziraphale groaned, his mind whirling and trying to persuade his body that it wasn't.

"Ow," Crowley agreed, his face squashed against the floor and his wings contorted around the two of them to fit into the suddenly cramped amount of space.

"What the-?" Aziraphale asked groggily, pulling himself carefully from under a pile of Crowley and onto a spare bit of floor.

Crowley didn't reply for a moment and instead seemed to be trying to figuring out how to move first. Eventually, he settled on winching in his wings and then flopping over onto his back, his pale face showing starkly beside the red spots of exertion on his cheeks.

"What just happened?" he asked again, leaning against a handy bookshelf. Crowley didn't move, but glanced across as he explained.

"You can get to Hell from anywhere, right? And when He Fell, he Fell from Heaven to Hell, passing Earth out entirely. That was what we just passed through – the link between Heaven and Hell, which is both on Earth and somewhere completely different. Don't ask me all the details, but I figured that if the crossover point is both nowhere and everywhere at the same time, then so were we. All we did, by thinking of here was to suggest one of those places as somewhere to be."

Aziraphale thought about this for a moment.

"That's insane," he replied eventually. Crowley shrugged.

"It worked, didn't it?"

The disgraced angel half-smiled, shaking his head as he watched the demon carefully sit up, not even wincing as he used the bookshelves to pull himself up.

"Ahem."


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten**

They both turned, fast enough to cause whiplash as the almost polite, quiet voice interrupted. There, to Aziraphale's dread, in front of the desk, stood an angel. It couldn't be anything else – all white robes and flowing red hair and wings impractically unfurled. It also held a sword.

"Who're you?" Aziraphale asked, tensing.

"Raphael, of the Holy Command," the angel replied importantly. "Are you Aziraphale, Principality and Bearer of the Flaming Sword? Accessory to ending the Apocalypse and Consorter of Demons?"

"Erm, yes?" Aziraphale answered cautiously, flicking his gaze momentarily at an equally confused Crowley.

Raphael hefted his sword easily. "Then I am under orders to dispose of you."

"WHAT?!" came the reply from two identical voices.

"Sorry and all," the angel continued, not looking at all sorry, but with the stony resolution of one who knows he has to do as he was ordered or suffer the consequences.

"_'Sorry'_?" Aziraphale repeated, scurrying away across the floor and to the door. Unfortunately as he hit the door, scrambling against it and trying to push it open, the angel raised a hand. The lock turned with an ominous click. Aziraphale swallowed.

"I'm sure this is all some sort of mistake…" he tried.

"No, it's definitely you they want dead," Raphael disagreed, walking forwards. "As I said, I'm sorry about all this, but as a disgraced angel, you should know how it is. You follow orders."

"Not if you disagree with them," Aziraphale returned, dragging up his reserve of bravery. If he was going to go, then he'd at least go for what he believed in.

"You can't do this!" Crowley suddenly gasped from where he lay against the bookshelf. The angel spared him a cursory, disgusted glance before turning back to his victim.

"I take no pleasure in this," he continued, raising his sword.

Aziraphale closed his eyes.

There was the sound of a blade cleaving the still air…

With the speed born of desperation, Crowley leapt forwards, only one thing on his mind – Aziraphale. The sword fell. Crowley tensed.

The tip cut cleanly through his chest, sinking deep easily through flesh, muscle and bone. The pain was so intense that Crowley could only gasp and fall back, his mouth wide open.

He saw, blurrily, the angel fall back, the holy sword exiting his body as effortlessly as it had entered. He felt, through the pain, himself fall limply back onto Aziraphale's legs. He heard, dimly, his friend's cry above him as his eyes slipped instinctively shut.

"Crowley?" A shaking hand touched his brow and he forced his eyes open.

"Not Crowley," he hissed, ignoring the blood that pooled at the corner of his mouth. "Fidael. My name is, was, Fidael."

"Fidael," breathed Aziraphale, wiping away the droplet with a shaking finger. "'Loyal of God' - it's a good name."

"Not v-" Crowley coughed weakly, "very demonic." He tried a grin that was lop-sided at best.

"It suits you," the angel replied quietly, trying his own smile. It looked as false as it felt.

Crowley coughed again, this time practically heaving as he spat blood, unable to sit up with Aziraphale's steadying hand on his shoulder.

"Nah," he said shakily, closing his eyes briefly. "t-too an-angelic."

"I always did say there was a spark of good in you," Aziraphale said sadly, trying to keep the smile on his face.

"Bastard," Crowley hissed back affectionately. His eyes slipped shut. With cold, numb hands, Aziraphale gently touched the demon's temple, closing his eyes briefly to hold back the stinging moisture in his eyes.

Then, carefully manoeuvring the demon to the floor, he stood and turned to the angel, his blue eyes flashing ice-cold.

"You killed him," the ex-angel stated, his tone edged sharply enough to cut metal.

"He's a demon!" Raphael protested, not liking the glint in Aziraphale's eye. "And I didn't mean to!"

"You didn't mean to," he repeated slowly. "I'm not sure if that's better or worse than killing him because he's a demon. I'm not entirely sure it matters."

"Y-you wouldn't do anything," Raphael replied uncertainly, the sword tip wandering between them, still covered in Crowley's blood.

"Oh wouldn't I?" Aziraphale hissed, stepping forwards. He threw out his hand to the side, instinctively calling out for his sword. On one level he was surprised when the perfectly-balanced blade materialised in his hand, but on all the others that were screaming red rage, he didn't care. All he wanted was to destroy this puny being who _dared _hurt Crowley.

"I-you-but," the other angel stuttered, stepping backwards. He stopped when he reached the edge of the desk, his face white as his feathers and terrified.

Aziraphale made to move forwards again, but a sudden flash of light made them both stop and turn.

"_Stop this at once!"_ a strident voice commanded, and instinctively, both angels made a move to hide their blades. Michael stepped forwards, wings unfurled and brushing the ceiling, his grey eyes brooking no argument.

"Now tell me – what is the meaning of this?"


	11. Chapter 11

**Comments** - Last chapter :D There may, or may not be a sequel, depending on my writing schedule and other committments, and, of course, interest. If you want a sequel, please drop me a line so I can weigh up my decision. Thanks, and hope you enjoyed this little GO jaunt. Apologies if you think it's a bit abrupt.**

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**Chapter Eleven**

_Crowley opened his eyes._

_It was white. Everything was white. The very air seemed luminescent, but softly so, so as not to hurt the eyes. It was clean and beautiful and so achingly and disturbingly familiar at the same time._

_Heaven._

"_Hello? Is there anyone there? I think I must've been sorted wrong…" he called out, stepping forwards. He suddenly realised one of the main oddities of death – that mortal wounds and all exhaustion had been stripped from his body. Experimentally, he jumped up and down a couple of times. Everything was in perfect working order. Strange._

"_No, you weren't sorted wrong," came a quiet voice from behind him. He whirled around._

"_Who-" he paused, frowning. Then, eyes widening, he paled. "Oh, sorry – didn't recognise you like that."_

"_It's understandable, Crefael." The apparition smiled, taking one step forward. "No, I wished to talk to you."_

"_Urm, OK," he replied nervously, putting his hands in his miraculously restored pockets._

"_It was a great deed you did, saving the Earth," the figure commented. Crowley nodded._

"_Yeah, well, it just seemed the best thing to do at the time."_

"_And saving Aziraphale – to sacrifice your life for that of your friend…"_

"_I know," Crowley replied uncomfortably._

"_You are ill at ease with these things – why?"_

"_Well, it's not very 'me', is it? Crowley the demon – stopped the Apocalypse and saved an angel's life," he drawled sarcastically. "At least I was good at being a demon."_

"_And you think you were bad at being an angel?" the figure asked in the same gentle tone. "You do know that I forgive you for leaving."_

_If possible, Crowley looked even more uncomfortable._

"_It is distasteful to you now, what you do, isn't it? Then why do you continue?"_

"_What's the alternative? Be the world's first Good Demon? If I'm not accepted by Him, and I'm not accepted by You, then who am I?"_

_The figure paused, folding its hands. "I have considered you and Aziraphale for a long time, Crefael. It seems to me that neither of you are what you were, and yet what you are does not cause me pain. You are as close to humanity as any of us, my sons and daughters under the world included."_

"_What are you saying?" Crowley asked, confused, his eyes flashing honey brown for a split second as he looked across at the figure._

"_You have a choice before you, Crefael. You can continue your journey from here to where you are taken. Or, given the nature of these monumental deeds, I could welcome you back to my hosts. You could take up your position of old, if you wish. Or I could reward your sacrifice with your life, and you could return to Earth as Anthony J. Crowley. It is in my power to make everything as it was with your superiors so that you will not be persecuted. The choice is yours."_

_Staggered by this, Crowley thought hard, his mind spinning. Part of him ached – the part that Aziraphale's presence had nurtured and healed over the years – that part of him wished he could go back, just be Crefael again. But, as someone once said, you can't go back – only forwards. So where did that put him?_

_He knew without even thinking that he couldn't leave Aziraphale behind. The very thought of the bumbling angel being alone worried him as much as it hurt him. Spending an eternity waiting for him…_

_He looked up and into those soft eyes that knew what he had decided without even waiting for him to speak._

"_I do not judge your choice, young one. Go and be with your," the figure paused, smiling slightly "your friend."_

Crowley gasped, his eyes flying open.

Looking up, he saw three figures, and the comfortably wonderful surroundings of his favourite bookshop. Aziraphale's back was to him, and his sword seemed to have appeared from somewhere, as it dangled from his hand loosely. The other figures were obviously angels – one was Raphael, and the other Crowley vaguely recognised from seeing him on a cloud somewhere. Martin? Michel? Michael - that was it.

"…was under orders!" Raphael was complaining, but the taller, commanding angel was having none of it.

"Those orders were not yet verified, and you know it! If you thought this would be a feather in your wings, think again Lieutenant – it'll be court martial for you!"

Crowley smirked, levering himself off the floor.

"And as for you, Aziraphale," he saw his friend brace himself, his hand clutching the handle of the blade more tightly, "we apologise for any inconvenience caused – that order has been retracted. I also have permission to give you back your wings."

Aziraphale looked up, his face looking pale and lost from where Crowley lay.

"My wings?" he breathed.

"Yes." Michael stepped forwards, laying his hands gently on Aziraphale's shoulders. The dark-haired angel closed his eyes, and after a second or two, his fingers started to glow in a warm light that spread across Aziraphale's shoulders, sinking into the skin. Then, all of a sudden, his jumper tore, and a bright, beautiful pair of wings erupted from his back, showering new feathers across the floor as they unfurled.

It took Crowley a few minutes to realise that Aziraphale was shaking, and then that he was sobbing.

"You know," the newly reformed angel said, his voice breaking. "You never know what you've got until it's gone. A week ago, I'd have given anything for my wings back. Now," he hiccoughed, "Now I've got them back, all I can think of is Crowley."

At this, Crowley grinned, feeling warmth settle into his stomach even as he felt it wrench in sympathetic pain. Shelving his glee for later, he wiped the smile from his face and eased himself up. Slowly, he walked up to his friend, moving around the wings and ignoring the gasps from the other angels. He smiled gently as he stepped forwards and folded him in an embrace.

He could feel the angel tense and shaking under his arms so he tightened his grip, placing his head on the angel's shoulder.

"Crowley?" Aziraphale whispered disbelievingly, his eyes tight shut as if he could hold the dream as long as he couldn't see.

"Yup, that's me," he replied casually. "Didn't you know that a good demon's hard to keep down?"

"Oh Crowley," Aziraphale choked, sobbing. "You were dead!"

"What's death when you've got the Big Guy on your side?" he replied quietly, pulling back slightly to look into the angel's unbelievably blue eyes. For a second, Aziraphale could've sworn that Crowley's eyes were brown – deep and dark and soft – but the next minute it was gone, and they were hugging again.

"I think we scared them off," Aziraphale joked weakly after a few more minutes had passed.

"Good. 'Orders Guy' was doing my head in," Crowley replied. "So, you've got wings again."

"Yes, I suppose so," the angel agreed, flexing them a little. "Back to thwarting and so on."

"Back to the Agreement?"

"Of course," Aziraphale replied immediately. Crowley grinned.

"Then it's business as usual," he commented.

"Well, as usual as it's going to get, my dear," Aziraphale returned with a grin. Crowley's stomach fluttered as he saw that grin back in its rightful place, but he held it down and merely grinned instead.

Unknown to him, Aziraphale was doing exactly the same thing.

Definitely business as usual.


End file.
